


Adaptive Foraging

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Animal Instincts, Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, Erotic cannibalism, Hard vore, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Overcome by strange, new urges, Waspinator learns that his beast mode's instincts run deeper than the processor.Tarantulas takes advantage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm a big advocate of Tarantulas putting eggs in people, but no one ever stops and says "let's put eggs in Tarantulas." 
> 
> It was time.
> 
> Also, we've been watching BW lately, and the fic was kickstarted in part by this exchange:
> 
> W: Give Waszzpinator more room! Tarantulas fat enough already!  
> T: If Waspinator does not stop cuddling me like a stuffed toy when he sleeps, I'll eat him as well!"  
> W: No, you won't!  
> T: Yes, I will!

Waspinator had been on edge for the better part of five solar cycles.

In the beginning he’d managed to keep it under wraps, but at this point he practically _vibrated_ with nervous energy, and it was probably obvious to anyone who looked at him for longer than a few kliks that something was wrong. Nobody had bothered to ask—a relief for once, that no one _cared_ —but most of the other Predacons had already made offhand comments, taunting him about his skittishness even as he backpedaled furiously.

Waspinator couldn’t be around them, not now—not like _this._

Tarantulas in particular, had been _watching_ Waspinator, and the lingering optics on the back of his helm were a constant presence which only heightened his anxiety.

The scientist _knew._

Waspinator barely understood what was happening to his frame, and yet Tarantulas observed him with a keen gaze which implied that _he_ did, and whatever his thoughts were, he wasn’t offering them—only silent, unsettling observation. No doubt he already had _ideas._

Waspinator was too afraid to approach him and ask. The scientist had a reputation for a reason, and admitting to anything which might put him at Tarantulas’ mercy would be—well it would be _stupid_. Waspinator knew he wasn’t the brightest bot out there, but he also knew better than to throw himself headfirst into danger. It’d been proven time and time again that the world was out to get him, and he wasn’t going to help it along.

More than that, he was afraid of what _he_ might do, were he caught alone in a room with the spider.

A mysterious condition had recently overtaken his frame—frightening and exhilarating all at once. It’d begun as a slight tingle under his armor, originating deep in the protomesh. A warning sign which he’d mistakenly brushed off.

After all, he’d been feeling a little weird since the day they’d first stepped onto this awful planet. They had whole new modes to get accustomed to—what was a little itch?

But it’d escalated quickly, flaring up into an unbearable heat which licked across his circuits and set every one of his sensors aflame. Now, everything was _sensitive_ —to the point where Waspinator couldn’t brush up against anything without it igniting a new round of torturous sensation.

Scorponok had clapped him on the shoulder the other day, and it had taken every micrometer of his self-control to keep from releasing the strangled whine which had built in his vocalizer.  

He was burning with unshakeable, confusing _need_. Besieged by a compulsion stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, and yet he couldn't understand it. The drive was there—impossible to ignore as it commandeered his frame bit by bit—but it was directionless in the face of his uncertainty.

Waspinator didn’t know what to _do._

It wasn’t just that he needed to interface. Despite the constant buzz of arousal plaguing him, his array had been suspiciously quiet. It hadn’t stopped him from self-servicing in a futile attempt to lessen his suffering, but in the end it'd done little good. The majority of his desire was pooling farther down—not where his spike was, but near the tip of his abdomen, which had begun to hang heavier as of late.

This morning there’d been a bizarre shifting deep within it, and even now his frame insisted that he was _ready._

Ready for _what_?

 _Eggszz_ , supplied his processor helpfully. The knowledge bubbled up unbidden, and almost immediately his fuel pump coiled tight with anticipation. Waspinator had no explanation for _why_ he was so sure, but he didn’t question the answer. It made as much sense as any of this.

This process wasn’t _natural—_ wasn’t Cybertronian—or at least, not what he was used to. He suspected that it was his beast mode’s fault. Nothing else could explain the alien instincts which had taken hold of his frame—primal and persistent.

Unfortunately, Waspinator was growing more and more desperate as time went on. If this didn’t let up soon, he was going to break.

He wanted— _needed_ —to breed.

The acknowledgment wrung a shudder from him. There was no clear instruction from his frame, no command popping up on his hub, but he knew it was true nonetheless. Confusion still ran rampant through his processor, but the pieces were slowly falling into place.

He wasn't happy about it. _Organics_ reproduced like this. Not him—not _Cybertronians_.

Right?

Waspinator buried his head in his hands and wailed with frustration. No one would hear him out here—tucked away inside a cave, and far from both bases.

“Why universe _hate_ Waszzpinator?” he seethed, rising to his pedes and kicking a rock in his sullenness. It shot off into the distance, echoing faintly as it was swallowed up by the darkness. His wings twitched in agitation.

Waspinator was glad he’d left early this morning, stopping only briefly to make sure Megatron didn’t have orders for him. Anything to get away from the base and its temptations. Thankfully, their leader had been too absorbed in his latest scheme to care; he'd barely acknowledged Waspinator’s presence, and Waspinator had skittered off gratefully before he could change his mind.

His optics had lingered hungrily on Terrorsaur on the way out, and he’d had to tear them away before his staring was noticed and taken the wrong way—or rather, the _right_ way. He’d been thinking about the other Predacons ever since—imagining what it might be like to _use_ them, and finally sate this errant coding. Now, he considered their potential as incubators for the eggs sitting heavy in his abdomen, and groaned with painful denial.

Despite the heat pooling thicker in his abdomen, Waspinator could only dream. Acting on these _urges_ —making his fantasies real—it would end in disaster.

He flinched, seeing the shadow of a fist flying at his face, and couldn’t help but imagine the many ways the other Predacons might rip him apart for his audacity.

His frame would just have to cycle down on his own, and he’d deal with the consequences later.

Waspinator ignored the small voice in the back of his processor, which asked what he would do when it _didn’t._ He needed to focus on the present, and keep avoiding the rest of the Predacons at all costs—before their tempting frames shattered the last of his brittle resistance.

Unfortunately, the pulsing desire to lay his clutch hadn’t let up; it was only growing by the klik. Waspinator whimpered as he thought again of the incubators at his disposal, warm, and snug, and _safe._ He dropped to his knees helplessly, his servos clutching at the ground.

Tarantulas was an especially enticing target. Waspinator had been trying to curb his infatuation for decacycles to no avail, and the coding had picked up on it in no time, warping his minor crush into a pressing need to _mate_ the spider.

It was greedy and impatient—interpreting Tarantulas’ recent study of him as _interest,_ and demanding that Waspinator act on it.

Now, he imagined what the swell of Tarantulas’ abdomen might look like stuffed full of _eggs_ , and whined. His panels slid open, and he immediately wrapped a servo around his pressurizing spike. It was leaking already, despite the fact that the source of Waspinator’s desperation lay somewhere else.

 _Poor subszztitute better than nothing at all_ , he thought mournfully.

Waspinator squeezed the base of his spike, and the ensuing rush of pleasure banished the melancholy train of thought before it could really begin. His vocalizer fritzed as he did it again, and soon he was setting up a frantic pace—bracing himself against the floor of the cave.

Apparently the sensitivity of his frame extended _everywhere_. Waspinator was quivering, gasping brokenly as the feedback from his spike synched to the throbbing of his abdomen, and he couldn’t help but picture Tarantulas writhing underneath him.

Shame tugged at his spark—at the power this _infection_ had over him, and at the wild desperation which had brought him to miserable self-service in the middle of nowhere.

It didn’t keep Waspinator from overloading. A couple eager thrusts into the tight vice of his fist and the ghost of Tarantulas’ moans in his audial were all it took for ecstasy to consume him. It stretched on and on—so much _longer_ than usual—and eventually he collapsed against the ground with a weak moan to ride out the last of the rippling waves.

Waspinator’s hips twitched weakly with each spurt of transfluid, and he couldn’t have cared less about the mess developing beneath him. He groaned contentedly, basking in the brief reprieve.

But to his dismay, the heat didn’t dissipate from his frame. If anything, it seemed more determined to ruin him. His frame didn’t just want an _overload_ —it wanted to be free of its burden.

Waspinator could have sobbed at the unfairness of it all.

His valve was throbbing in sympathy. He could feel the lubricant dribbling down his open panel, across his thighs and onto the floor. When he reached back to slip two fingers in they met little resistance—valve loose from both the constant arousal and frequent self-service of the past few days.

As Waspinator shifted, the tip of his abdomen dragged against the stone and the stimulation to the obscenely sensitive end made him see stars. He’d stroked it the other cycle while in his berth, managing to contort himself enough to reach the source of his problems, and the pleasure had nearly shattered him. When something had begun to emerge from the end he’d stopped, too frightened by the changes to continue.

At this moment, he’d do anything to sate the rapidly building hunger.

Waspinator rocked into his palm over and over again—angling his abdomen deliberately and letting the dual stimulation drive him to new heights in record time.

It was going to be a long cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This poor, sweet, suffering boy ;3
> 
> There _will _be some more warnings/tags added for chapter 2. I left them off so people could read Wasp jerkin' it without fear, but Tarantulas is a nasty spide.__


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my WIP got longer than expected (whoops), so I have a short chapter for all of you! It also means the throughly nasty bits haven't appeared, so no new tags as of yet.

Waspinator held onto the hope that his condition would go away on its own for another two,  _agonizing_ solar cycles before finally acknowledging that he’d reached the point of no return. The rut had amped up in intensity, and now self-servicing brought him no relief at all—only pain.

His frame was restless—besieged by cramps and convulsions as his eggs demanded freedom. He needed them _out,_ but the insidious coding wouldn’t allow him to squander his precious cargo; the very thought of them wasting away on the cold ground instilled a visceral sense of horror in him.

What Waspinator _needed_ was to find a suitable host, and lay his clutch before it was too late. What he had done instead was hole himself up in a seldom used supply room—where no one would come looking for him as his instincts clouded more and more of his processor.

He was teetering on the precipice of something feral, and it scared him.

 _At this point, Waszzpinator go offline from humiliation_ , he thought miserably, from where he was hunched over on the floor. He didn’t want to think about the others’ reactions should they find him curled up on the floor—vents straining and about to overheat himself into stasis because of _arousal._

If it could even be called that.

Another violent spasm from his abdomen, and Waspinator doubled over with a moan. He didn’t have to stifle them here—away from prying optics. His armor housed a furnace, and the heat stung and made him feel as though any moment his plating would peel from his struts, and slough off onto the ground.

Waspinator dug his claws into his arm in frustration and they bit deep, the sharp pain drawing his attention temporarily away from the underlying burn. He was primed to do it again when his comm buzzed, and the interruption was so unexpected that he started guiltily before answering.

“ _What?”_ snapped Waspinator, patience eroded by his labor.

He received a snicker in response; it was a familiar sound, and it immediately caused him to stiffen—his wires stretching taut with a growing dread.

“Someone’s _snippy_ today,” observed Tarantulas with his usual amusement. “Not feeling well?”

On any other day—from any other bot—it might have been an innocent question, but Tarantulas didn’t _do_ innocent, and he’d been watching Waspinator for far too long for this call to be coincidence. Waspinator clicked his mandibles together nervously.

“...Waszzpinator is _fine._ ”

A lie, and they both knew it.

“If you _say_ so,” tittered the spider, and Waspinator could ignore the patronizing tone as long as Tarantulas left him alone soon; left him to stew in his misery and not _interfere_. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be having this conversation—not with his attraction boiling so violently under the surface, and not with someone as dangerous as his unfortunate crush.

Tarantulas was cruel, and he _always_ had ulterior motives.

“It’s the energon, you know,” said Tarantulas slyly, and Waspinator tensed further. “The radiation, and the abnormal properties of the fuel we’ve been consuming. In combination with these new modes the effects are quickly becoming obvious.” He stopped to snicker once again. “More obvious for _some,_ of course.”

The throbbing in Waspinator’s midsection served as confirmation enough.

“What does spider-bot want?” he demanded, unable to control the way his voice wavered as the mass of eggs shifted inside him once more.

“Why, Waspinator,” began Tarantulas, and the purr unsettled him nearly as much as it excited him. “I only want to _help._ ”

Waspinator groaned, and slammed his helm back against the wall with a thunk. It was a trap—too good to be true—but the coding was overwriting even his sense of self-preservation at this point. If he accepted Tarantulas’ offer, this would all be over soon, one way or another.

It had to better than sitting here in the dark as his frame tore him apart from the inside out.

“..How?” he asked weakly, and the resounding laugh was more of a _cackle_ this time.

“Meet me at these coordinates in two mega-cycles. Don’t keep me waiting~”

Pleasant on the surface, but the threat was heavily implied. Wasting Tarantulas’ time was a surefire way to draw his ire and end up on the wrong side of a dissection table.

The commline clicked as Tarantulas disconnected, not bothering to wait for Waspinator’s response. He knew that Waspinator would be there—desperate to soothe his pain and silence the demands of his greedy, _mutinous_ frame.

A pair of coordinates arrived without fanfare in Waspinator’s commsuite. Tarantulas shifted his lab on a regular basis, and these would probably put him close to where the scientist had most recently taken up residence.

Unease warred with the arousal in the pit of his fuel tank. With Tarantulas, one never knew what to expect. His _assistance_ had been offered, but that could mean any number of things—the majority of them questionable or outright horrifying.

Waspinator released the vent he had been holding in, and dragged himself to his pedes even as his frame protested. He had plenty of time, but an early start would give him a chance to compose himself.

Unfortunate, that he’d probably lose any progress he made the moment he laid optics on Tarantulas.

Oh Primus, _Tarantulas_ —who’d realize in a nano-klik that Waspinator wanted nothing more than to pin him down and slip his clutch inside of him. Waspinator whined; he slumped back against the wall even as his servo drifted downwards.

In the cold silence of the supply room, the click of his panel was accusingly loud.

__________________

Waspinator’s pedes touched down on springy soil. Tarantulas had relocated to a forested area this time—soft, and green, and full of new life—and the significance of that wasn’t lost on the part of Waspinator’s processor keen to leave his own mark on this world.

He glanced around suspiciously, but there was no sign of Tarantulas. The foliage was dense, and there were any number of places the spider could be lurking. He’d need to be careful.

The coordinates he’d been sent were just a few meters beyond the clearing he’d landed in, amidst the towering trees. Waspinator was willing to bet that Tarantulas had found yet another secluded cave to set up base in, but he was reluctant to venture under the restrictive cover of the canopy—where he’d be at a disadvantage with his wings.

Waspinator stepped hesitantly forward. He began slowly making his way through the dimly lit forest and towards the blinking dot on his HUD. As he approached the location, he saw what looked like a datapad resting innocuously on a stump—obvious and out of place.

Waspinator moved a little quicker, his curiosity stirring. What had Tarantulas left for him?

He reached out to pluck the datapad from the stump, and it powered up immediately to reveal—

Nothing.

The pad was completely blank—no new information or messages to be found.

Waspinator growled with frustration, and threw it off into the bush. What kind of game was Tarantulas playing?

It would be so like him to tease, to renege on his offer in order to watch Waspinator squirm from afar. Waspinator's irritation was climbing quickly—his frame still yearning, and now with no guarantee of relief.

He took a step back, and the ground gave way beneath his pede with a telltale click. Alarm coursed through his lines as the noise registered, but he still wasn’t quick enough to dodge the webbing which shot out at him. The projectile hit Waspinator square in the chest, and within a nano-klik he was plastered to the tree behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, the Good Stuff. 
> 
> Also, a reminder that you can find me at both eat-your-spark-out and spidingsadly on tumblr in-between fic <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!
> 
> "Book, you can't keep doing this."
> 
> Listen, school's been crazy busy, and finding the time/energy to write around lecture, assignments, and work has been. ridiculous. I figured posting another chapter was better than waiting who knows how long for me to finish the ending.
> 
> Small warning for dubious consent, because while Waspinator isn't upset about getting to frag Tarantulas, he doesn't have much of a choice either.

Waspinator struggled—but the more he thrashed, the more the sticky substance clung to him. Already, he could tell that it was as strong as Tarantulas’ more permanent webs… which meant the chances of him escaping were slim, at best.

He was thoroughly trapped.

A faint snicker floated down from the canopy, and the rustling of branches announced Tarantulas’ arrival. The laughter grew louder as he approached, and took on its usual, unhinged quality. Waspinator could see the way it shook the spider’s supple frame as he scrambled down the tree he’d been hiding in.

Tarantulas transformed as he hit the ground, and Waspinator couldn’t help but fixate on the enticing sway of his limbs as he drew closer.

“Comfortable?” asked Tarantulas, the mocking edge as prominent as ever.

Waspinator didn’t rise to the bait, and avoided the optics positively gleaming with mirth. Instead, he remained stubbornly silent—his wings buzzing angrily within the limits of their confinement as he berated himself for falling so easily into Tarantulas’ trap. Stupid. Impulsive. _Typical_. When would he learn?

“You know, I didn’t plan for much of a challenge, but I also didn’t think it would be _this_ easy,” chided Tarantulas. “I’d be a little embarrassed if I were you.”

If he was, the heat from his enduring affliction covered it up. Shame was indistinguishable from anything else at this point.

A clawed servo crept under Waspinator’s chin—his helm the only part of his frame still capable of movement—and forced it forward.

“Or do you just have that much confidence in me?” Tarantulas purred. He leaned in close, and his sudden proximity did nothing but reignite all of the terrible desire Waspinator had been trying to suppress since this one-sided conversation had begun.

He just barely managed to hold back a whine as Tarantulas looked him up and down—no doubt evaluating his sorry state.

“My, my. You must be _suffering,_ ” noted Tarantulas gleefully, and Waspinator’s glare grew more baleful.

“Why does spider-bot care?” he asked, leery of the answer.

“Call it _scientific curiosity_ ,” responded Tarantulas, which put none of Waspinator’s fears to rest. He pulled a scanner from his subspace and began sweeping it along Waspinator’s midsection. “I told you before—it’s the energon. Raw and unfiltered like this it makes us _stronger—_ and more importantly—prime for reproduction. Our frames want us to—ahem— _propagate_ the species, and they don’t particularly care how alien that process might be.”

Tarantulas continued to ramble on about the ‘remarkable adaptivity of Cybertronians’ as he took his scans, but Waspinator found it hard to care about the _why_. The science might be fascinating to Tarantulas, but _he_ was the one wrestling with excruciating, _terrifying_ lust, and he just wanted it to be over.

“Spider-bot offered _help_ ,” Waspinator grated out, and while Tarantulas looked briefly irritated at the interruption his field quickly smoothed over again.

“I did, didn’t I?” he replied, slipping the scanner back into his subspace and humming thoughtfully. “You need a place to put those eggs, before you end up glitching yourself into stasis. I can provide that.”

Something inside of Waspinator pulsed eagerly.

“W—where?” he ventured nervously—not quite daring to hope. Tarantulas was smart; he could probably circumvent Waspinator’s need for a living Cybertronian, but that wasn’t what he truly  _wanted._

Tarantulas waved a claw dismissively.

“My frame will be more than adequate,” he affirmed.

The way Tarantulas offered—as though it were an insignificant detail and not an intensely intimate suggestion—finally pulled the long-suppressed whine from Waspinator.

“Why? What’szz in it for spider-bot?” he demanded weakly. Tarantulas undoubtedly _liked_ seeing Waspinator suffer. It was why he’d waited so long—until Waspinator was too needy to refuse.

Tarantulas chortled again.

“What? I can’t offer to help a fellow Predacon out of the generosity of my own spark?” he asked. His tone was sickeningly sweet, but the continued snickering took most of the sincerity from his words.

Waspinator’s uneasy silence was answer enough.

“Does it matter?” wheedled Tarantulas. “You hardly have any better options, and I can assure you that this will be beneficial for us _both.”_

That was exactly what Waspinator was afraid of.

That being said, he’d already lost the battle. The tattered remnants of his common sense clamored at him to escape; reminded him never to take Tarantulas’ word at face value—because his methods were insidious, and his promises deadly—but it was crushed under the need to quell the growing frenzy.

Waspinator rallied himself for one last, empty protest. He wouldn’t give Tarantulas the satisfaction of an easy victory.

“Maybe Waszzpinator not want your help. Maybe Waszzpinator not intereszzted,” he ventured somewhat petulantly.

The obvious lack of conviction sent Tarantulas into new hysterics, but when the malevolent giggling had subsided there was a triumphant glint to his optics.

“Don’t think I don’t _know_ ,” he hissed, and a shiver of unease ghosted up Waspinator’s spinal strut despite the almost playful inflection. “I’ve seen how you look at me—can only guess how you _think_ of me—though I have some idea. I mean, did you think I wouldn’t _notice_?”

Waspinator could only stare helplessly in response. Dread settled like a lump of iron in the pit of his fuel tank. He’d thought— _hoped—_ that he’d been subtle, but Tarantulas had a keen optic and he’d been stupid to think that the scientist wouldn’t sense his infatuation.

“You’ve got _wandering servos_ ,” accused Tarantulas. His own servo released its grip on Waspinator’s helm and slid down to rest on his chestplate, kindling a trail of fire in its wake. “Your cuddling was obnoxious enough when I still recharged back at base, but I also remember all those times your servos crept a little... farther.”

Waspinator squawked. They’d been forced to recharge communally at the start, after the ship had crashed and they’d been wanting for space. A few nights he’d awoken to find himself pressed up against the other bot, and with his servo already wrapped around the smooth expanse of a thigh or midsection Waspinator had found it impossible to resist chancing a caress or two.

“Well, consider this an _opportunity_ ,” added Tarantulas, a touch snidely.

At the moment, he seemed determined to get him back for those late-night explorations. Claws plucked teasingly at Waspinator’s armor, and as Tarantulas trailed them lightly across the glass of his chest—mirroring the stolen touches—he trembled with the force of his want.

“Let Waszzpinator go,” he muttered sullenly, torn between his frame’s response and his continued lack of agency.

 _“_ All in good time~ _”_

The servo spread flat as it wandered further down, and warmth radiated outwards from the point of contact, leaving Waspinator dizzy with expectation. Resentment was quickly shoved to the side as Tarantulas deliberately caressed his abdomen.

“Now where does it hurt the most?” murmured Tarantulas, and Waspinator was seized by equal parts anticipation and dread. “Here?”

He pressed down on the spot where Waspinator had felt his eggs shifting and growing these past few solar cycles— applied exact pressure to the tender area—and Waspinator keened. He felt the eggs shift under the chitin, and the knowledge that they would be out soon—that he would finally get to lay them in a snug and willing host—incited a rush of pleasure so intense that his optics whited out.

“Mmm, I thought so,” said Tarantulas smugly.

Violent shivers wracked Waspinator’s frame now, and the pulsation of his lower body had begun anew.

“Why don’t we speed things along, hm?”

Tarantulas trailed his servo farther still, skirting beyond Waspinator’s thorax to the source of his frustrations. A sharp pinch to the tip of his abdomen, and he bucked with a short cry—that had _hurt_ —but the immediate rush of molten pleasure which followed dragged a whimper from his vocalizer

Tarantulas’ thumb rubbed slowly, but firmly at the tender end, and Waspinator writhed in his restraints—protests all but vanishing as he arched towards the contact he’d been seeking for so long. Soon he was almost delirious with bliss, vents straining and mandibles slack as he twitched weakly in Tarantulas’ clutches.

His abdomen split apart, metal curling back as the tip of _something_ protruded from the end. Waspinator had gotten glimpses of it before, and while his view was obstructed he could feel every micrometer of the new—spike?—as it pushed its way past the barrier and extended into Tarantulas’ waiting servos.

No, It wrong for a spike—too slender, too vulnerable, too _flexible_ —and as Tarantulas coaxed it out it curled eagerly into his grip. The slick slide of Tarantulas’ servo against the strangely soft metal was _divine_ as he began to map out the new appendage _._ The ministrations were suspiciously gentle for the spider, but how could Waspinator object when Tarantulas wrapped his fingers just so, and slid almost tenderly along the length of it.

“What a lovely ovipositor,” purred Tarantulas. “Wouldn’t you like somewhere to put it?”

“Pleaszze,” Waspinator begged, straining in his bonds—and there was no mistaking the satisfied tinge to Tarantulas’ field as he voiced his surrender. He didn’t really care; he was too consumed by his need to deposit his brood in the warm and willing host in front of him.

Tarantulas cackled with perverse glee, and with a few quick slashes of his claws Waspinator was tumbling to the ground. He landed in an ungainly sprawl of limbs, but was quick to scrabble to his knees, even as Tarantulas sunk down to his level.

Upon the realization that he was _free,_ Waspinator was overcome by a sense of feral triumph. Every inch of his plating buzzed with intent. As he turned his hungry gaze to the spider’s frame Tarantulas looked vaguely uneasy—for the first time since their little liaison had begun.

_Good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I still can't get over the canon cuddling. Like, what are their sleeping arrangements?? @hasbro explain??


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently, swamped by essays, but bringing you another short chapter in the meantime.
> 
> I've been dying to write ovi from the pov of the suffering party, so here we are ;D

Waspinator launched himself at his target. Tarantulas had no time to react, and the spider almost squeaked with alarm as he was bowled over and clumsily manhandled onto his front. Waspinator knew that Tarantulas could tear him apart with ease, but his surprise at the aggressiveness—combined with the knowledge that he wasn’t in any real danger—ensured that he went without much fuss.

Something instinctive compelled Waspinator to transform, and he clambered on top of Tarantulas as he struggled to rise to his knees—to brace himself against the ground on his elbow joints.

“Eager, are we?” rasped Tarantulas, but Waspinator’s limbs had found purchase in the chinks of his root mode, and the quivering of his carapace gave him away. If the restless wiggling of his frame against the ground was any indication, Tarantulas was _just_ as ready.

Waspinator’s abdomen curled inward, and the protrusion—an ovipositor, Tarantulas had called it—trailed stickily against the backs of the spider's thighs as it sought a way in.

“Yeszz,” he intoned lowly, making sure to speak directly against Tarantulas’ audial as he bore down a little harder—clutched a little tighter. The panels blocking him snapped open immediately. Waspinator felt a brief flicker of pride at the easy concession, and he watched avidly as Tarantulas’ fingers burrowed into the soft earth beneath him. Tarantulas _wanted_ his clutch, and it made this moment that much sweeter.

Waspinator’s ovipositor extended further, nudging greedily at its prize. He moaned softly as it slipped inside, and was enveloped by the living heat of another Cybertronian for the very first time. Already thin, the copious amount of lubricants dripping from both the end of his ovipositor and Tarantulas’ voracious valve made for an easy slide across _very_ slick nodes.

The yearning which had been simmering under Waspinator’s plating for so long had finally found an outlet, and now the convulsions deep within his abdomen had taken on a new intensity. He hunkered down over Tarantulas’ squirming form—nestled his own frame against the yielding expanse, and arched slightly to aid his passage.

Bit by bit he inched deeper, bypassing the fruitless grasp of Tarantulas’ calipers and settling at the back of his valve. From beneath him came a quivering exhalation—almost too soft to notice, but a clear sign of Tarantulas’ anticipation.

There was a tight pressure deep within him; a relentless, shifting sense of urgency overlaying the pleasure. And then, a more pronounced sense of _release_.

Waspinator shuddered violently as the progression of eggs along his ovipositor became obvious, stretching the pliable material as they advanced. They were smaller than he’d thought—having experienced in full the gravid weight of his clutch these past few solar cycles—but the reason soon became apparent.

Because there were countless eggs already lining up along the inside, piling upon one another in the narrow channel as they crawled slowly towards their destination. They were small yes, but they were _many_ , and his processor thrilled at the realization—so many chances for new life.

They were also gelatinous, molding themselves to the passage as they squeezed through, and popping free with just the barest hint of resistance. A gush of fluid followed each one, and with every egg that worked itself free, Waspinator convulsed in ecstasy. _This_ is what he had needed.

It wasn’t _quite_ like an overload—more akin to the period of sharp bliss one experienced before tipping over the precipice—and the nonstop deluge of sensation left his frame wracked with tremors. Waspinator’s wings buzzed frantically with delight as the feeling lingered, and then _intensified_ with each egg deposited.

He was quickly lost to the haze of laying; his world narrowed to the ebb and flow of his newfound ecstasy, and the weak ripple of Tarantulas's valve. From the continuous stream of low moans beneath him, it seemed that Tarantulas was equally appreciative of the way the eggs filled the available space—putting acute pressure on some of his most deepset nodes. The tide was relentless, and as they packed more and more of Tarantulas’ valve with no signs of stopping, the spider groaned, and rested his helm against the ground.

He had to be feeling the stretch by now.

“W—Waspinator,” he began hoarsely. “That’s—”

 _Enough_ went unsaid as Tarantulas cut off with another moan, but he still shifted—too much, too fast, as though to break their union—and Waspinator hissed possessively. Absolutely _not._

This time Tarantulas loosed a strangled whine as Waspinator pinned him more thoroughly, and didn’t fight back as he was pressed further into the ground. In fact, he let out a small breathless laugh at Waspinator’s assertiveness—no doubt dying to comment on it, but thankfully preoccupied.

Waspinator ignored Tarantulas’ hesitation. If the scientist had miscalculated, well—it wasn’t his problem. He was fully intent on finishing what _he_ had started.

He envisioned the growing curve of Tarantulas’ plating as he was pumped full of the slurry—hundreds of soft eggs stuffing his internals to the brim—and jerked helplessly. The ensuing throb pushed another couple of eggs through in one quick motion, and Tarantulas gave a muffled shout from where he had buried his faceplate in his arm.

Waspinator fixated on the way his claws dug gouges into the ground, and tried desperately to memorize the sight; he doubted he would have an opportunity like this again—bound to Tarantulas through mutual desire, instead of one-sided longing.

A shaky vocalizer demanded _more_ , almost as if to taunt him.

Waspinator was facing more resistance now, the eggs struggling to situate themselves in the crowded space. He was nearly done—so _close_ to fulfilling what this coding had asked of him—and though his strength was flagging, and the procession had slowed down to a trickle, Waspinator mustered the energy for one final, gratifying push.

The last of the eggs pressed in amongst the others in a cascade of molten bliss, and as they settled inside their new sanctuary a small, satisfied warble escaped his vocalizer. His limbs shook from the sustained effort—dangerously close to giving way—and it was all Waspinator could do to extract himself before collapsing.

It was concern for the eggs which led him to drag himself off to one side, rather than crush Tarantulas with his weight.

The now-oversensitive ovipositor retracted into his abdomen, and after a moment, Waspinator sluggishly reverted to root mode. His wings twitched weakly, helm resting against the cool earth in sated relief. Free of his pain for the first time in solar cycles, now he ached for another reason entirely. Recharge would come blissfully quick tonight.

Waspinator was startled out of his reverie as a servo grabbed his shoulder, and he quickly found himself being rolled over onto his back via the aid of Tarantulas' many limbs.

“ _You_ owe me an overload,” cooed the spider, from where he loomed over him.

 _Waszzpinator didn’t get one either_ , he wanted to point out—but decided that voicing the petty thought might be pushing it.

Luckily for Tarantulas, his unusual release meant that despite Waspinator’s exhaustion his interface equipment was still primed. All it took to free his array was the deliberate pawing of his spike cover.

Waspinator tore his optics away from Tarantulas’ ravenous gaze, and found himself tracing the slight swell of his midsection instead, then farther down to where the slick evidence of their coupling painted his thighs. A glowing anterior node winked temptingly, and Waspinator had zero objections as Tarantulas took advantage of his distraction to position himself above his _very_ interested spike.

Waspinator had a brief moment of alarm, as he considered how _full_ he’d left Tarantulas. Would he even fit? Would their brood be ok?

“Careful,” he pleaded, as Tarantulas began to lower himself, claws latching onto Waspinator’s front for support.

His fears were mostly unfounded, for while the fit was snug, and the descent agonizingly slow, the eggs parted around his spike until Tarantulas sat hilted. The pressure must have been fierce—the grip of his valve almost painfully good—but Tarantulas dimmed his optics and ground down with an obscene moan. Lubricant squelched between them.

Knowing Tarantulas, he probably appreciated a bit of… discomfort.  

Tarantulas’ frame had begun to shake, and for a moment Waspinator worried that it _had_ been too much.

However, he quickly realized that the vibrations were the product of Tarantulas’ renewed snickering, not his pain.

The claws at his chest dug in suddenly, gouging deep grooves into the metal.

And it was with mild horror that Waspinator remembered just _who_ he had entrusted his progeny to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how the turns have tabled. 
> 
> One more chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the new tags! Which I've now fixed, since AO3 apparently didn't save them earlier.. 
> 
> The WIP for this was titled Nom Nom Cronch, and its been a long time coming.

Waspinator’s fear spiked as Tarantulas dragged his claws down with relish, hooking them deeper. His sensors lit up in agony as the reinforced metal rent through his armor like hot wax, and energon gushed to fill the gaps. He cried out and attempted to twist away, but this time it was Tarantulas who had pinned him thoroughly.

It was obvious that Tarantulas enjoyed his struggling; when Waspinator’s hips bucked involuntarily—driving his spike deeper—the spider groaned his appreciation.

Waspinator had known that this was a bad idea—why was he always so _gullible_?

One of the servos was wrenched from his chest, and more energon bubbled up from the gaping tear. It began to stream hotly down his side. The servo seized him under the throat, and Waspinator grasped frantically at it in an attempt to loosen its hold, but Tarantulas was already forcing his head back. Before he knew it, there were vicious mandibles piercing the lines in his throat.

The sting of the initial bite was nothing compared to the fierce frost which swept in after it, spreading rapidly as it lay claim to Waspinator’s circuits. With it came a horrible numbness, and in mere nanokliks the feeling was already branching out to his upper chassis. His grip on Tarantulas grew slack as the tingling induced a terrible weakness in his limbs, and then his arms were falling down to rest beside him once again.

Tarantulas pulled back, and his mandibles gleamed with energon from where they had sunk deep into Waspinator’s protomesh.

 _Venom_ , came the dismayed realization, but already Waspinator’s thoughts had begun to cloud. With each passing moment, the consequences of it seeping into his systems seemed less important. Tarantulas ground down, and the surge of approval from his array helped hasten the process—a murky haze quickly settling over his processor.

“There, isn’t that better?” soothed Tarantulas, and the patronizing tone was equally unimportant; all that mattered was the way Tarantulas’ valve fluttered weakly around his aching spike. The throbbing of his wounds swiftly faded to the background as the venom dulled his pain, and left him focused solely on the snug ripple of calipers trying to draw him in.

Deep down, a tiny part of Waspinator was still panicking—desperate to escape—but it hovered at the edge of his existence, irrelevant in the face of the delirium which had seized him.

It might have been easier to fight, had the venom dulled his pleasure, but all it did was take away the sharp agony of Tarantulas’ ministrations and leave Waspinator fully able to enjoy the way the spider rocked down against him. What’s more, it seemed to be making headway, because now he could hardly lift a finger—his limbs unwilling to heed his commands.

Waspinator was paralyzed, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

He lay helpless and blissfully compliant as Tarantulas took his pleasure, and dragged him along. His optics continued to drift to the curve of Tarantulas’ abdomen, wherein he was reminded that he’d been allowed to _lay_  and a new swell of pleasure would wash over him.

Tarantulas’s servo curled around his—and the motion seemed strangely tender all things considered—but it was only to lift Waspinator’s lax fingers to his mouth. Tarantulas nibbled teasingly at the tips, and though he knew it must have prickled, Waspinator felt nothing.

In the next moment, Tarantulas’ demeanor changed entirely, a sinister slant entering his field.

A sickening crunch.

Another.

And then Waspinator found himself staring at the stump which had once been his servo.

The appendage had disappeared down the spider’s maw faster than he could process the loss, but the energon now splattered across both of their armor was proof enough.

Waspinator should have been horrified, but he couldn’t dredge up the energy.

Tarantulas’ field buffeted him with its visceral satisfaction, and the small taste seemed to have ignited something in the spider—who renewed his rocking, and set about indulging himself in all that Waspinator’s frame had to offer.

Blanketed by his stupor, Waspinator acknowledged—but barely felt, and certainly didn’t mind—Tarantulas tearing into him. He was too preoccupied by the delicious squeeze of his valve, and the feeling—the _knowledge_ —of the eggs stuffed inside.

His midsection was gouged open as Tarantulas’ targeted his internals. Claws made quick work of the protective covering, and soon enough his vitals were exposed. Waspinator didn’t know what criteria Tarantulas used to determine what parts of him were worthy of consumption, but before long the ground beneath them was soaked with energon, and he was feeling dizzy for an entirely different reason.

More and more of his frame vanished down Tarantulas’ gullet, and the spider ate with relish, wriggling distractingly on Waspinator’s spike the entire time and overloading multiple times in the process. The pulsing enthusiasm of Tarantulas’ climaxes dragged Waspinator along more than once, and despite the heavy trauma to his frame he felt barely a twinge of pain—enveloped by the numbing embrace of the venom.

One of the antennae on his chest was snapped off at the base, and consumed in a few bites. One of his alt mode’s legs was given the same treatment. One of his shoulders was torn away from his chassis to expose the underlying wires, and it seemed that was more for Tarantulas’ sadistic amusement than anything else.

Tarantulas dug into his chestplates once more. He ripped the metal away, and for a second Waspinator thought he might go for the fitfully flickering spark he’d exposed. Instead he used his claws and began to carve out chunks of the casing itself.

Waspinator had been ignoring the frantic blinking of his HUD for some time now, but additional dialogue strings had begun to pop up—warning of imminent shutdown. His vision had started to gray and blur at the edges, and the weightlessness had been replaced by an intense dizziness that not even Tarantulas’ more pleasant attentions could alleviate.

He didn't notice that Tarantulas had leaned forward once again, not until the telltale pressure of mandibles registered against his throat. The fact that Waspinator even felt it at all indicated how hard he must have been pressing.

He didn’t realize just how hard, until Tarantulas was wrenching back with a good chunk of plating and circuitry between his fangs, wires stretching and then snapping audibly as he pulled back. Energon spurted from the wound—painting a gory picture across Tarantulas’ helm. He didn’t seem bothered, simply ground what must have been by now an extremely sensitive node against Waspinator’s plating, and shuddered into another overload.

Waspinator was too drained to follow this time; his spike twitched weakly in response to the overstimulation. The warnings on his HUD practically shrieked their displeasure, and despite his quickly fading cognizance Waspinator scrounged up enough energy to be annoyed. As his vision grew dimmer and dimmer, his thoughts slowed even further to a sluggish crawl.

Why couldn’t it just leave him alone? He was _fine._

But Tarantulas was suddenly very close, and a brief spike of fear wormed itself free of the thrall—the consideration that perhaps he _wasn’t_ fine, and that he’d been lulled insidiously to a permanent end. The horror, once seized, was as a knife; it pierced the veil and invited a brief moment of clarity.

What was he _doing_?

The first bite out of his helm left him reeling.

The second brought a hot flash of pain, deep enough to cut through the fog.

And while his systems informed him that a large chunk of his vital processors were missing— error messages glitching across his HUB— it was suddenly... very hard to... think….

A familiar despair clawed at him.

_Universzze really does hate Wasz—_

Darkness.

________________

The tick, tick, tick of Tarantulas’ claws on the datapad came to an abrupt stop as he finished up the last of his notes. The little liaison he’d had with Waspinator today had been enlightening to say the least, and it was important to make sure that he documented the experience... thoroughly.

He cast a sideways glance at the tank on his left as he placed the datapad down, and reclined in his chair. Only a few hours had passed, but Waspinator’s repairs were coming along nicely; the regeneration tank had been serving its purpose admirably, despite the fact that he’d cobbled it together out of admittedly limited resources.

In the liquid, Waspinator floated like a discarded shell, seeming for all intents and purposes a deactivated husk, save for the faintly flickering biolights. Tarantulas felt a glimmer of satisfaction as he looked upon his handiwork. There was an artful asymmetry to the mangled frame—wires and tubes spilling out from the suspended form and trailing eerily. He really had outdone himself.

Despite the extensive damage, the energon lines had already sealed off, and the edges of Waspinator’s armor were beginning to reform. Tarantulas would patch him up a little more thoroughly tomorrow. The chamber would deal with the superficial damage, but some of the parts would need to be rebuilt from scratch. It would be slow going, but most of Waspinator could be salvaged, given time.

Processor damage was an uncertainty; they’d just have to wait and see.

Not that it particularly mattered. Waspinator didn’t need a fully functional processor to be of use to Tarantulas. In fact, any future experiences might be better without, if today was any indication. Reduced to pure instinct, Waspinator was— _became_ —a very good time. A small titter escaped him as he thought more on it. Oh yes, instinct would do nicely indeed.

A comm from Terrorsaur popped up at the edge of his HUD. It was an exceptionally irritated inquiry, asking if he’d seen Waspinator. Apparently, he was overdue for a patrol. _Hah._

No one would come looking. Tarantulas made the other Predacons far too uneasy for them to venture into his domain without good enough reason, and no one had the wherewithal to assume he’d been in contact with the insect. He wasn’t concerned.

Then again, it would probably be wise to move the lab again. No harm in taking precautions. He sent a quick reply, assuring Terrorsaur that he’d been too preoccupied with his experiments to keep track of Waspinator’s haphazard wanderings. It was a half-truth.

Tarantulas had no plans to return him as of right now. One trial was hardly a study, and they’d need to repeat the experiment quite a few times to garner any kind of meaningful results. Besides, he felt like being _selfish_.

The memory of hot energon splashing against his armor—the sharp taste of it on his glossa—sent a thrill through him. Tarantulas shifted and the eggs shifted with him—a dull pressure which would continue to remind him in the days to come. His decision to indulge was becoming more and more gratifying by the klik.

Tarantulas would need to keep an eye on them—his brood. He wouldn’t put it past Waspinator’s frame to have picked up some of the more gruesome habits attributed to wasps—namely, their parasitic offspring. It was possible he'd need to remove them before any sort of natural… emergence.

Tarantulas stood up—ignoring the protests of his aching frame—and slowly approached the tank. He trailed his claws across the glass. Waspinator was unable to hear him like this, but he couldn’t resist.

“I had fun. We should do this again sometime~”

He snickered.

After all, there was so much room for improvement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a callout for my friends, who after months of resistance finally got me to write hard vore without even trying. They mentioned Tara, and I played myself.


End file.
